Pages

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Kalakiland

Kalakiland

It was
mid-afternoon, and I was sitting on the veranda of my little house in Chainda,
sipping a glass of kachasu, when I heard a voice behind me, ‘Excuse me sir, my
apologies for interrupting your royal contemplations, but am I right in
thinking that you are Paramount Chief Kalaki?’

‘My dear fellow,’ I said, shaking his
hand, ‘You have indeed found the Palace of the Paramount Chief. Sit down, have
a glass of kachasu, make yourself comfortable, and introduce yourself.’

Instead of sitting down he started to
grovel on the floor. ‘No no, my dear fellow,’ I said, lifting him by his arm, ‘we
don’t do that sort of thing here, we’re all very democratic. Just sit down and
introduce yourself.’

‘I am the Africa Correspondent for the
BBC,’ he replied. ‘My name is Sishuwa Sishuwa Sishuwa.’

‘Sishuwa Sishuwa Sishuwa,’ I said.
‘I’m very very very pleased to meet you. My name is Kalaki. You only have to
say it once.’

‘I am used to interviewing other
African presidents,’ he said. ‘I humbly seek your advice on the form of address
which you prefer. Should I say Your Excellency the Paramount Chief and Father
of the Nation, Professor Spectator Kalaki, Loved and Revered President of the
Peoples Peaceful Republic of Kalakiland? That’s what I was told by the Africa
Desk in London.’

‘When people call me that,’ I laughed,
‘they are just making fun of the pompous fellow in the neighbouring Republic of
Zed, who insists on being addressed in such a ridiculous fashion. But when
people are not making fun of the other fellow, then they just call me Komrade
Kalaki, or just Kalaki. So now, Mr Sishuwa Sishuwa Sishuwa, what can I do for
you?’

‘Even me,’ said Sishuwa Sishuwa
Sishuwa rather shyly , ‘you can just call me Sishuwa. I’d be most grateful if
you could answer a few questions for our Focus on Africa programme. First of
all, how did you become president of Kalakiland?’

‘I sort of appointed myself. You see the
job has no salary and no allowances and no state house. Just look at my humble
little house, which my wife and I bought from our savings over the years. Somebody
had to volunteer to do the job of calling meetings, and deciding how to deal
with the troublesome neighbouring republic of Zed. So I do the job just as a
public service.’

‘Public service!’ gasped Sishuwa.
‘I’ve never heard of such a thing before. But tell me, how did the Republic of
Kalakiland begin?’

‘Well, actually, it started from my
little yard here, which used to be part of the Republic of Zed. People seeking
refuge from the fearful government of Zed used to come and hide in my yard. The
secret police never suspected that a retired schoolteacher could be harbouring
refugees. And my dear wife Sara has such a sharp tongue that no blundering
shushushu would think of knocking on our gate without good reason.’

‘Then how did Kalakiland grow to the
size of Swaziland?’

‘It was rather surprising. But as Zed
became more dictatorial, and with more refugees fleeing the increasingly
vicious police state, we began hiding the refugees in more and more yards,
until we had a large area outside the jurisdiction of Zed. Then people began to
call it Kalakiland.’

‘But don’t the police invade Kalakiland
to recapture their victims who escaped from Zed?’

‘My dear Sishuwa, it’s not that
simple. Even the police chief in Zed knows that when he is fired, he will need
somewhere to run to. Even the ministers know that when they annoy the Great
Dictator, they need a neighbouring republic to which they can quickly run and
where they will be safe. And they bring all their stolen money with them, which
they have to share with us, because Kalakiland is a democratic country.’

‘But how is Kalakiland governed? Do
you have a parliament, judiciary, police force and that sort of thing?’

‘We have avoided setting up all the
institutions that destroyed Zed: we have no ministers to steal from the poor; no
parliament to pass bad laws and increase their own salaries; no judiciary to be
bent like a cucumber; no police force employed to fix the perceived enemies of any
mad dictator.’

‘So without the police, how do you
deal with crime?’

‘Most of the criminals were in
the police force, which we abolished.’

‘What about education? Do you have schools
to pass on knowledge from one generation to the next?’

‘We saw how schools were used to
destroy the children’s imagination, and to turn them into unthinking robots to
follow instructions irrespective of how stupid. We saw how schools cut off
children from their traditional culture. So in order to restore education we
have abolished schools.’

‘So you don’t have any national
institutions?’

‘Only one,’ I laughed, raising my
glass. ‘The Kalakiland National Distillery which produces the internationally
famous Kalakiland Kachasu, the only truly African traditional spirit. It keeps
our people happy, sells all over the world, and makes us the richest country in
all Africa!’

‘One distillery makes you the richest
country? How?’

‘Because we don’t have a government to
steal all our money! Cheers!’

‘Cheers!’ he said, as he emptied his
glass and rose to leave. ‘Thanks for the marvelous drink and fascinating
interview. Tune into Focus on Africa next Thursday, and you’ll be able to hear
it all!’